One Candle Wasted
by tanyart
Summary: One night under the stars.  Altar/Malik


It was, perhaps, a little foolish to be traveling together, leaving Masyaf without its Grandmaster or its second in command. It was only for a week, but Altair had been casting worried glances over his shoulder the moment the city disappeared from view. Malik, grown tired of riding ahead and alone, finally snapped at him to either go back or stop lagging behind or ride his horse backwards, so that he may stare without having to constantly turn his neck around.

The rebuke was a bit unfair—Malik worried just as much as Altair—but Rauf was a competent man and there was no reason to doubt his leadership. Rauf, at least, was genuinely well-liked among the citizens, whereas Altair held them in awe and Malik himself toed in between the lines of fear and grudging respect, though that sounded an awful lot like self-flattery, so Malik stopped his thoughts right there.

"The sooner we reach Jerusalem, the sooner we can return," he had said, trying not to peer into the shadowed hood that hid Altair's face. He already knew what he would see—tired lines and dark rings under Altair's eyes, and a mouth set in a perpetual downward tilt.

The Grandmaster hadn't said anything in return, too deep within his thoughts to formulate a reply worth saying (and Malik found that disconcerting, as Altair was always quick to speak his mind, regardless), but he kept up with Malik until the sun dipped into the horizon and forced them to set up a tiny camp, away from the main road.

They ate their meal over a small fire, breaking the day's worth of silence with easy conversation, things like correspondence from neighboring cities and the interesting new recruits that seem to flock to Masyaf every month, and the finer details of weaponry, though neither went so far as to pull out their knives to argue their point.

And it was only natural that their conversation veered into topics of war, business, and brothers recently lost. They would have kept talking, too, if Malik hadn't heard the weariness that tampered Altair's voice as the night wore on.

"I'll take first watch," he said, falling back into a routine that reminded him of their days as journeymen, camping and arguing over night shifts with their comrades, most of them now long gone to other places or other lives.

"There's no need to," Altair scoffed, walking over to the horses to retrieve their thin bedrolls. He handed one to Malik, when in another time, maybe a year ago, he would have simply tossed it to him or not bothered at all.

"For _you_, perhaps, but I would rather not have thieves making off with our supplies and horses," Malik said, taking the bedroll and tucking it aside. He glanced up at Altair, noting the restless shuffle of his boots as he walked to the other side of their campfire, and did not mention that Altair himself would sleep easier, if only he would let Malik stand guard.

"I pity the thief that would even try," Altair said, fixing his pallet and laying down. He regarded Malik over the flames, expression almost unreadable, but Malik was beginning to recognize the telltale signs of gratitude, the way Altair's gaze held steady, even when the faint color of his cheeks betrayed him. "Wake me up when it's my turn," he conceded, turning around so that the fire warmed his back, and that he may face outside the camp (or away from Malik).

And it was strange how Malik could tell the precise moment Altair drifted off to sleep. Not from the relaxed contour of his body or the inaudible rise and fall of his chest—because Altair was an _Assassin_, more than capable of feigning sleep—but from the way one of his hands came up to tuck beneath his chin, a habit formed since childhood, and the way his lips parted slightly in a manner that may have embarrassed the man, had he been truly awake.

And Altair had fallen asleep within moments, faster than if he had been back at Masyaf, where he was kept on edge from every knock that sounded at his door, every tolling bell, and every golden glint from the Apple that beckoned him to answer. It had been too long since he had slept untroubled and under the stars, with nothing to break the quietness of the night, and Malik found that he could appreciate this trip a little more because of it.

He paused in his rounds, stopping just in front of Altair, halfway from returning to his original spot by the dying campfire but closer to where the warmth mattered more. It was horrible how easy it was, giving in to the smallest indulgence without struggle. He knelt down, careful to not let his robes brush against the slumbering man, and sat so that he could see the exhaustion fade away from Altair's expression.

Once or twice, he thought about reaching out, maybe to brush his fingers over Altair's hood, bringing it back so that the weak firelight could set a tiny, incomplete halo around his head. Malik grinned, a little, for Altair was no saint, but the image was still pretty in his mind, if not laughably inaccurate, and his hand stayed idle in his lap.

By the time the flames had dwindled down to embers, Altair was shifting in his sleep, unconsciously moving closer to the waning campfire. Without thinking, Malik waited for the body to tense and relax before he scooted behind Altair, leaning their backs against each other, though Malik remained sitting up.

Altair murmured something, low and incoherent, but settled again, hand still tucked under his chin, so Malik knew that he was still asleep, surprising as that was. He wondered if Altair would have done the same for anyone else and, looking back down, realized that—_no_, he wouldn't. Anyone else would have found a knife point at their throat.

Malik frowned, unsure if he should consider it a selfish benefit or an inevitable downfall, but he laid his hand on top of Altair's head anyway—this one simple thing he could not bring himself to do, ever, while there was light in both the world and Altair's eyes, and he was thankful that the moon was just a thin crescent in the sky when Altair stirred.

"Malik?"

"It is not yet your turn. Go back to sleep."

"You are very bright," Altair said, his voice thick and mumbling and, of all things, _accusing_. "You shine like stars. Stop that."

And Malik wanted to laugh. Wasn't he the one wary of the light from Altair's eyes? And of how they looked at him now, glowing and golden from the reflecting embers, almost like early sunrises, if Malik cared to be poetic and wholly love-stricken (in opposed to _partly_, when no one was there to see).

"You're dreaming," he said, covering Altair's vision and feeling the flutter of eyelashes under his palm.

"I am not," Altair retorted, sounding clearer, more awake. He tilted his head, glaring and defiant, though it only served to slide Malik's hand over his mouth. "But don't stop," he muttered, the words not coming out quite as muffled as they both wanted.

"What, shining?"

Altair's words were lost beneath the press of his hand, but Malik did not regret it.

"Go back to sleep, Altair," he repeated, leaning in, so close that he could brush his lips over his own knuckles, and maybe he did, but it was hard to tell now that the embers were nearly gone. "I will wake you again later."

Altair had gone very still and Malik guessed that he must have been staring, despite the darkness. Finally, he nodded, and Malik drew away, counting the beats until the other man was able to fall back asleep.


End file.
